In Dublin in November 2018, two things happened. Well, far more than two things happened, but let’s focus on two.
One was that I played a solo gig, as part of a house party where Gráinne Hunt and Tiger Cooke also played. (Sure, it was Tadhg’s house, how could he not.) I’d played - I think - two solo gigs before that: one for my friend Andrea’s birthday in Chicago in 2010, during which I had my friend Lissie sing with me because I wanted to sink into the earth and die, and one for my friend Cheryl’s birthday in Denver in 2011, during which I wanted to die even more than the previous one. After that I decided I’d never put myself through the torture again. Why try to force myself into being something I’m just not? Some people are The Edge, or Pete Townshend. Not everyone can be Bono or Roger Daltrey.
As a kid in a violent household, I learned vulnerability was unsafe. I find singing to be extremely vulnerable, and my body would initiate all manner of protection to keep me from it. My throat would close; notes that I knew I could hit reasonably well would not remotely produce themselves. It was excruciating for me to imagine how embarrassing everyone must think it to be, and I would freeze up even more in shame. I never had any of that just playing guitar and singing backing vocals. Why couldn’t I stick to that?
In 2015, when I (for the third time) took on the role of singer and main songwriter for Xs & ARROWs, I knew this time there was no backing out. We’d had too many unreliable singers. It was me or the band was dust. I decided we just didn’t have to gig. I wanted to make an EP. Record the songs, yes, put art into the world, yes, but without putting myself out into it. Occasionally (often for my own birthdays), we would do a house concert. I liked the arrangement - no more schlepping gear to Hollywood, no more waiting in the cold on Sunset Blvd or in some back alley until stage time, no more rushed set up, no people talking through your 35 minutes, no more rushing to break down for the next unappreciated band. Even in my own home it was still excruciating, though. I’m just not a great singer. I’m always afraid everyone knows that, and that they think the songs are crap, too.
Whenever I found myself in Dublin, I’d be made to sing, often in front of real, actual singers. I couldn’t look up from the fretboard or piano. I could barely get notes out. “It gets easier the more you do it,” a friend told me. In 2017, this started to almost maybe feel like it could perhaps carry the tiniest smidgen of truth.
So by late 2018, I thought, yeah, ok, I think I should be able to play a solo set without wanting to set myself on fire. That didn’t happen, though. I kept making dumb mistakes, missing notes, and the room was so silent and full of all the sweetest people I could call friends that (in my mind) unquestionably thought I was painful to listen to. I was up until 4am buzzing with terrible anxiety.
The next night, I went to see U2. (This is the second thing.)
They opened with a song called “The Blackout.” “Blackout / No fear / Who you are will appear.” It hit me harder than any other time I’d heard it (before or since). Like the song was saying, “It’s you. You write songs. You sing them. Do it.” It felt like maybe who I was was appearing, after a particularly long road of attempts, and also after a particularly dark year and a half. It felt so weird to be having this epiphany after feeling so terrible about my performance. But all I could think was: I have to do this. And I can’t lean on Susan and Pam for it to happen. It has to come from within me. No more fear.
It’s not as though this is the first time such a thing has happened. I feel like every concert I go to there is a version of, “fuck, I love music so much, it’s all I want to do!” running through my head. It had actually just happened the previous month when seeing Snow Patrol in Kansas City, during the song “Don’t Give In”:
It’s in your blood, and it’s in your making
So don’t hold your tongue, cos it’s not longer working
“Do it,” I wrote later. “Do music. Go for it. IT’S IN YOUR BLOOD.” Then a few more words about getting out of my own way. (Also the name of a U2 song played that night in Dublin.)
My point is, this has happened consistently throughout my life of playing music and going to shows. But it had never happened with such clarity and fervor. It had a strength I could not comprehend. I promised this time I would not let myself down.
I was forever trying to meet musicians around LA, looking for opportunities to connect with others and get out of my house gig bubble. It just didn’t really ever quite happen, despite my attempts. I thought probably I should go to some open mikes, just get out of my comfort zone and get more comfortable on stage as the centre of attention. But I never did.
I dunno... I’m introverted, LA is exhausting, and every last ounce of my energy was being taken up by commuting 80 miles a day to a job I don’t like. If you’re naturally a night owl but have to wake up at 6:30 every morning and don’t get home until 6:30 that night, good luck doing literally anything.
Last year when my eye broke, I had been begging the universe to please just let me STOP. Stop spending three hours a day on the freeway, stop spending eight hours in an office chained to a computer, just STOP. I got my wish in the worst possible way, nearly losing my sight and the most awful, completely bonkers recovery period you could imagine, but I was home, and I could stop. I started to really love it. I found that despite the constant anxiety about my eye, I was happy. I had time for myself.
Pandemic? Of all things? I had plans this year to see so many of my favourite bands: Daniel Lanois, Pearl Jam, Roger Waters, and, of course, The Frames. I’d also finally taken the leap and was supposed to be playing some gigs in public for people I don’t actually know. But here we are, at home. Here I am, not on the freeway. I am playing music every day. When there’s a lull in my dumb job, I can pick up my guitar instead of scrolling through Facebook or Instagram. (Although, ok, I am doing that too.) I was thinking the other day about how not seeing miles of concrete or the inside of those four office walls has affected my brain. When I look out the window, I see mountains. When I take a walk, I am among plants and birds and trees, not amidst construction or dodging distracted lunchtime drivers who never look for pedestrians. Hiking the San Gabriel mountains every weekend for the past two years since I moved here has rooted me to this place, but not having to leave it has even more deeply. Spending my days at home has given me my life back. I have so much more energy to work on music and various projects and focus on other self care that I struggled to keep up with before.
It’s also given me a really good excuse to finally practice gigging regularly, and no way to use the band as a crutch. I’ve done a livestream every other weekend since lockdown began, played songs on the weekly Talk Hard stream (put on by the fabulous people at The Outer Loop), done other shows, tributes, and open mikes, meeting countless fellow artists that I never would have otherwise. Performing has started to feel easier. I’m always at least a little bit nervous, and I always flub a note or 50, but I’m doing it. What’s more, I’m finally enjoying it.
I know I’m never gonna be Paul Simon. Or Mariah Carey. I don’t like her anyway. I just want to make art.